Cathect
by JaneApricity
Summary: When the Editor, a Timelady, comes to clean up after Ood Operations, she meets one Ood who has not reconnected to the Circle of Song. She swears to find his hind-brain and reconnect him, but she doesn't realize what such a promise will have in store. Disclaimer - I own nothing of Doctor Who, the Ood, the TARDIS, Sonic Devices, or the Doctor himself.
1. Foreword

**Hello, everyone!**

 **As you've probably noticed, these fanfictions tend to run a little different from Canon. This is because they're based on roleplays. In this AU, there are several Timelords and Timeladies that are running about wreaking havoc. We don't bring in the Doctor too much out of fear of showing him OOC, but he is aware that there are other timelords.**

 **This particular fanfiction focuses on the Editor, the OC created by JaneApricity. Since this story is still in the rough draft process, her character may not be fully fleshed out in the story, so here is a brief(ish) overview.**

* * *

You have so many layers, that you can peel away a few and everyone's so shocked or impressed that you're baring your soul, while to you it's nothing, because you know you've twenty more layers to go. - _Craig Thompson_

When she is quiet, there is a reason. She is sorting through all the chaos in her head... and all the madness in her heart. - _LLK_

I believe in annoyed at first sight. - _Anonymous_

* * *

 **Name** : The Editor

 **Age** : 1,304

 **Time Period** : Yes.

 **Lost Regenerations** : Two. The first was due to a massive fire in a library, and was rather accidental. The second was due to one of the other Timelords being idiotic and disobeying rules, I'm certain.

 **Sex** : Female

 **Build** : Very tall, bit leggy

 **Other bodily characteristics** : Eh... think Hedy Lamarr.

 **Typical outfit** : 1940's Victory suits (blazer, A-line skirt, short heels, etc.)

 **Friend(s)** : The Inventor is her closest friend. She tolerates the Captain, and he tolerates her.

 **Companions** : Asher Landon (Not Current Companion)

 **Way of speaking** : She has the tendency to use words that no one else does. Or has, for about forty years. Very clipped British accent.

 **Personality** : Stick-in-the-mud, by-the-book, down-to-the-letter.

 **Items in his/her pocket or bag** : Sonic device, small make-up thing, pencil, pen, books.

 **Sonic Device** : Umbrella. It used to be a respectful black. *sniffs irritably* Then Asher took to it with a paintbrush.

 **Hobbies** : Reading, mostly. Making plans for EVERYTHING. Literally any circumstance that comes along, she's probably thought up a plan for. She can "wing-it" but doesn't like to. Mostly because then people use the slang term "wing-it".

 **Talents, abilities, or powers** : Ticking people off, following rules, misinterpreting the rules on purpose when absolutely necessary, planning things.

 **Relationships** : She has an iffy relationship with the other Timelords, since following rules isn't really their thing. She has never had a companion before, but when she does she will get along a little better with them.

 **Fears** : Losing her own humanity. That's why she sticks so closely to rules.

 **Faults** : Stick-in-the-mud, boring, bossy...

 **Good points** : Responsible, hardworking, all that fun stuff. :P But she DOES care about people... if she's bossing you around, she's just trying to keep you from making stupid mistakes. She actually loves you. Also, she's a helluva researcher. Her solution to nearly any problem is to find out more about it. As such, there's been several situations where she showed up to the problem late, but with the solution.

 **What he/she wants more than anything in the world** : Not Currently Applicable

 **Favorite Word** : Fathom

* * *

 **I hope that you enjoy Cathect as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

 **-J.A.**


	2. Chapter 1

"Doctor Donna Friends. Doctor Donna Friends. Doctor Donna Friends."

It was only one of the many harmonizing lines in the song of the Ood. The song pulsated in the Editor's mind as she stepped foot on the Ood Sphere.

"For 'friends', the Doctor and Donna left quite the mess," the Editor sniffed. She knew that it couldn't really be helped; saving a race from slavery was bound to be a bit bloody. But looking at all of the soldiers, people in suits, and Ood scattered on the snowy ground still left the Editor feeling a bit miffed.

Without a moment to lose, the Editor set to cleaning up like it was any Spring Cleaning on her TARDIS.

It was quite the sight. One woman, dressed in a neat 1940's Victory suit, dragging the bloody bodies of Ood and soldiers to their separate piles. Her heels crunched in the snow, and her neatly curled hair and A-line skirt blew in the frigid wind. The blazer was little protection against the freezing environment, but the difficult work warmed the Timelady up nicely.

"You are not Doctor-Donna Friends," said a polite voice from behind her.

The Editor straightened up, turning to face an Ood with a translator glowing in his hand.

"Oh! Er, no. I'm the Editor. I'm the Doctor's friend." The Editor wondered if it was polite to shake hands with an Ood.

"Doctor-Donna-Editor Friends?" The Ood tilted his head, side-ways eyes blinking serenely.

The Editor frowned slightly. "No... we're separate beings."

"I do not understand," said the Ood in the overly-polite voice coming from the translation device.

"The Ood are all connected to the Ood Brain, like a hive mind, correct?" the Editor asked. "We have no such Brain. Each of us has only one."

"I now understand," said the Ood. "Doctor and Donna Friends. Editor Friend?"

Grammar did get a bit tricky when translating from a unified song.

"I'm a friend," the Editor assured him. "I want to help you. How can I do that?"

"The Ood are not to be served," said the Ood.

"Think of it as making up for the terrible things that were done to you." The Editor's eyes fell on the translation ball again, glowing each time it turned telepathy into spoken words.

"You are cleaning up," said the Ood. "We are building civilization. This is all the help that we will need for now."

The Editor smiled at the Ood. "Do you have a name?"

"I was called Delta 21," the Ood replied. "I should now be a part of the Circle. The Circle is no longer broken. But I am still Delta 21."

"Oh dear." The Editor's smile faded. _What in the name of Gallifrey did you do now, Doctor?_ she thought with exasperation. "Are you the only one?"

"The other Ood are a part of the Circle," Delta 21 replied.

"Well, why on the Horsehead Nebula did you not tell me you needed help with that? When I've finished cleaning up, I'll look into why you're not a part of this Circle yet. I'll fix it," the Editor promised.

* * *

 _I still made promises loosely in those days. I did not realize the weight of my comment. I did not realize what an effect it would have on my life, both then and forever after. Promises are like wishes. They are so fragile by themselves; they are only as strong as the one who makes them._


	3. Chapter 2

The Editor closed the slanted eyelids of the last Ood. All the corpses had been arranged according to species, in case humans chose to come retrieve the remains of any loved ones. Should no one return... the snow would see to a proper enough burial.

As the Doctor was off celebrating those who had been freed, the Editor mourned those who had died. She could hear the mourning song of the Ood, ringing in her head. At first, it was a few "voices". But soon, it overpowered the Freedom Song until they there was just a trickle of the elation beneath the grief for the dead. But the Editor didn't mourn for too long; she had more practical things to get on with.

"Do you know if there's anyone else here? From Ood Operations?" The Editor asked Delta 21.

"If any humans are left, they will be in the Complex," said the Ood in his overly-polite voice.

"I'm going to check," said the Editor. "Would you be willing to wait by my TARDIS? I'm afraid I'm not very used to telling apart individuals in your species, and I'd hate to lose you."

"I can accompany you into the Complex," the Ood said, ball flickering off at the end of the suggestion.

"That would be greatly appreciated," said the Editor as warmly as she could.

 _It must be terrible,_ she thought, _to be turned into a slave, stripped of all your former self, then forbidden the opportunity to rejoin your brethren._ Her heart twisted at the thought of it.

The Editor walked towards the cluster of warehouses, the Operations headquarters in the middle. There were no cries for help; only the sound of shoes and heels crunching in the blood-splattered snow. No human blood; the Ood had even killed kindly. No, this was the work of human bullets. The Editor sighed softly. It wasn't enough to imprison the poor creatures, rip our their brains, turn them into high-functioning vegetables. No. Humans had to kill them if they revolted.

 _Granted,_ she thought, _the Ood were killing them too. But still, human greed ever at the heart of things._

She pushed open a door and stepped into the dark complex.

"Hello? Is anyone in here alive?" She called. _Oh dear. There are more bodies in here too_ , she thought.

"Is... is it safe?" whispered a voice from behind a counter. The Editor strode across the room and peered over the side of the desk to find a middle-aged woman crouching there.

"You'll be safe with me," the Editor promised, uncertain as to whether or not the Ood would still be violent towards their captors.

The woman stood up. Her hair was a mess, and her hands shaking.

"Hello..." The Editor peered at the nametag pinned to the woman's blouse. "Kyren? I hope I pronounced that properly. Kyren, please follow me. I want to see if there are others still alive, and then I'll return you to a human-populated planet."

The Editor could see her work was cut out for her; not only did she have to return the humans, but she would have to find Ood that were still slaves on other planets, on spaceships, on spacestations... it would be a busy next few months.

"There's another one of those things! Behind you!" Kyren half-yelled half-whispered.

"Ah, yes. This is Delta 21. We're going to have to find you a better name, dear. It's horribly impersonal."

"You're working with them," Kyren hissed. The fear-crazed woman backed up against the wall, heels scraping against the metal.

"Calm down, dear," the Editor said in her most soothing voice. "The Ood aren't evil. Just rather... susceptible. Particularly without their hind-brains. Which the likes of you ripped off in the first place," she added rather coldly. "In any case, they won't harm you any longer. Particularly not Delta 21. Now come, I need to get you and the others home."

Kyren looked between the two.

"They killed him. Them. All of them. Dead." Her voice came out in a horrified whisper, eyes trained on Delta 21's translation ball.

"Are you the only person left?" The Editor asked.

"I don't know." Kyren looked down. "I've just been... here."

The Editor sniffed. "Well, no matter. Come along! Or if you're feeling brave, go stand by the steamer trunk outside."

"I- what?"

"My spaceship, so to speak. Although technically, it's also a time-ship. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. It's larger on the inside... the outside is just a lovely steamer trunk." The Editor began picking her way around debris and any dead bodies on the floor.

"Where are we going?" asked the frantic woman.

"Upstairs, of course. I need to check for other people. Hello? Is anyone up here?" The Timelady jogged up the stairs, heels clicking against the metal loudly. The nervous Kyren and serene Delta 21 followed suit.

The Editor methodically checked every room in the rest of the Complex. There was a young-looking man playing dead in one of the larger rooms, and an older man in an office. Each responded more or less like Kyren.

"Now," said the Editor when she'd finally gotten the three in the same room and calmed down. "I'm going to take you to Earth. There, you should be able to return to whichever planet you call home. And I never want you on the Ood Sphere again. In fact, I might put a law in place. Come along!" She turned and marched out the door of the Complex, back into the bitter cold.

"Will I be going to earth as well, Editor?" asked Delta 21.

"No, you'll be staying in the TARDIS with me. If you would like to, of course. There just might be something in there to help me help you." The Editor opened the lid of the steamer trunk to reveal a set of stairs, leading infinitely downward. "Everyone follow me." She carefully stepped over the edge of the steamer, then walked downward, ducking to avoid the end.

She heard gasps of shock as the three humans watched her simply disappear into the snowy banks below. Delta 21 followed, unfazed.

"That's- this is ridiculous! I'm not going in that tiny _box_!" ranted the old man.

"I would like to request that you not insult my "tiny box", sir," called the Editor. "Do come down, I'd hate for you to freeze to death."

Kyren shook her head, hair whipping in the wind. The older man just stared, looking angry. The younger man glanced around, as though hoping for another option.

"Ood!" he cried. Then he jumped into the TARDIS and ran down the stairs.

"Shut the door behind you!" the Editor added. "It could go very badly otherwise."

The older man ran after the younger, still looking gruff. Kyren came in after, pulling the trunk lid down as she went.

"It's... impossible," said the old man stubbornly, as though if he simply refused to believe it it would comply.

"I have a rule, sir," said the Editor. "If something is proved to be what it is, don't make yourself sound idiotic by claiming the opposite."

"I- what?"

"Welcome to the TARDIS," said the Editor politely. "If you'd like tea, that can be arranged in a moment. For now, please hold onto any railing available. I'm afraid she isn't terribly steady." The Timelady was flipping switches and pressing buttons and pulling levers, methodically going clockwise around the console in the massive room they'd come down into. "We'll be arriving on Earth shortly."

"Impossible..." the old man mumbled.

With the squawking, yet organic sounds of machinery, the TARDIS vanished from it's spot on the Ood Sphere. It spiraled through time and space, defying every law known to man before landing safely on Earth.

The shaken occupants, call clinging to railing and furniture, had no idea that they'd hopped from planet to planet in mere seconds. They had no idea who they were traveling with.

* * *

No one had taken the Editor up on her offer of tea. They seemed very eager to be done with the whole ordeal. The Editor had no idea how the Doctor managed to keep finding people that were curious, brave, or smart. She seemed to find humans that were simply the epitome of everything other races despised about humans.

"Maybe it's because you keep cleaning up their crap... you always end up near the arse," the Inventor had once suggested. Crude analogy aside, it was a fair point.

"Up we go!" said the Editor cheerfully. The humans were idiotic, but they hadn't broken any rules. She might as well be polite.

"But... we're not on earth. That's impossible. It's been no more than 60 seconds!" cried the Angry Man.

"What have I told you about the impossible?" scolded the Editor. "Now up the stairs." She made shooing motions.

The young man was first again. He darted up the stair-case, throwing open the top of the steamer trunk. He crawled outside.

The Editor didn't see him again.

Kyren was next. She went up nervously, looking back for reassuring nods from the Editor from time to time.

"Dammit, woman!" said the Angry Man. He pushed past the Timelady and began prodding Kyren up the stairs more quickly.

"Dear me," the Editor commented. "Rather rude of him."

"Perhaps he has not been forced to rely on methods other than aggressiveness in his lifetime," added Delta 21, translation ball casting slight shadows in the very dimly lit control room.

The Editor turned and considered Delta 21's observation. "Very astute," she said.

"When the Ood are interconnected, we see from everyone's point of view," Delta 21 said. "We are capable of understanding how each person thinks. We can adjust to each person, accommodating them, or help them see from our perspective in a way they will understand. Humans are individuals who crave union, but find it difficult to connect properly, often putting themselves first assuming others will will adjust to them."

The Editor was floored. The Ood were considered to be little more than animals. Not geniuses for certain.

 _I've fallen into the same trap as the humans,_ she thought. _I was polite to Delta 21. But I didn't treat him like a very self-aware thing._

"I think," she said after a few moments. "That you're going to need a better name than Delta 21."

The Editor was off to look for any Ood being kept as slaves on Earth. She had left Delta 21 behind with a book. It was, in fact, a book of her favorite words. Most were obscure, and all were chosen for their meaning or sounds.

 _He's certain to find something he likes_ , she thought. _If Ood are capable of being into the whole "reinventing yourself" thing._

The Editor was very much into "reinventing yourself". She had done so two regeneration ago and never looked back.

For the most part.

She shook the thoughts away and strode towards the tallest building on earth. It was home to the fourth branch of government: media.

"Hello," she said to the lady at the front desk. "I'm going to need to send a broadcast."

"...what?" The lady blinked at the strangely dressed woman.

"I'm going to need to send a broadcast," the Editor repeated. "I assume that you've recieve reports of Ood gone violent?"

"That's impossible," the lady scoffed. "Ood are naturally peaceful."

"True," the Editor agreed. "But they're also rather susceptible. And besides that, no telling me something's impossible when it's already happened."

"So I suppose you want to send a broadcast to send everyone into a panic in the hopes that they'll free your precious Ood," said the woman sarcastically. "Look, you're not the first friend of the slaves to try and free 'em. Also, most are cleverer than just waltzing up and demanding to broadcast something. Now scram."

"I could have been clever," said the Editor sharply. "Except that would be lying and breaking the rules. And the broadcast isn't for humans. It's for the Ood."

"Oh, you're gonna tell the Ood to rebel? Sure. That'll go just dandy," the woman drawled, going back to typing.

The Editor sighed. "What do I have to do to get an appointment of some sort?"

"Just give up, lady. You're never getting in that broadcast room."

"Now look here-" the Editor started.

"Editor?" called a voice.

The Timelady turned to see a girl who fit in nearly as much as she did. But rather than a WWII era suit, she was dressed in a grass skirt and a top that showed far more of her very tan skin than was acceptable in this era.

"Oh, hello Korrie," said the Editor. "What a pleasant surprise. Is the Assassin here?"

"I seem to have lost him," said the girl.

Korri was a native of Hawaii, plucked out of the era when it was being colonized by the Timelord named the Assassin. The two couldn't have been more different. The Assassin was insane. He preferred chopping off heads to any other method. He infuriated the Editor to no end; no one could have more disregard for the rules than the Assassin.

Korrie was calm and collected. She had a soothing way about her, which was probably why the Assassin kept her on in spite of her pacifist ways.

"Oh dear," the Editor said with a sigh. Losing the Assassin usually meant losing several innocent civilians.

"He heard complaints about Ood becoming violent, and... well. He's fond of that environment." Korrie tugged at her dark hair.

"If he touches one tentacle of those Ood I will have his head. _Again,_ " the Editor growled.

"Oi. I'm not going to kill the Ood. They're the ones killing. I'm joining them!"

The Assassin strode over to the two ladies, his futuristic armor glinting in the harsh lights overhead.

"This is entirely inappropriate. Take this meet 'n greet outside!" barked the lady at the desk.

"Shove it." The Assassin held up a highly polished metal gauntlet in her face. "So, Korrie! Broadcast room?"

"It's on the fifth floor according to the signs," said Korrie.

"You're not going to just burst in there," said the Editor indignantly.

"Yes we are. Because sitting around "making appointments" and "asking nicely" and "following rules" will maybe get what you want done in... oh, fifty years?" said the Assassin. He reached over the desk and scooped out a handful of candy from the lady's bowl. "Thanks."

Then he took off running towards the stairs.

The Editor huffed. "That incorrigible _bastard._ "

Korrie just smiled serenely, then took off running after him.

Before she could say anything else so crude, the Editor stiffly followed.


	4. Chapter 3

The Assassin had one of his many Sonic Pens out, waving people out of the way.

"Shoo! Shoo, humans! I need to use your camera. Or she does. Why am I doing this for you again?" The Assassin's helmet popped off so he could eat some of the candy he stole from the secretary.

A very angry Editor pushed him out of the way. Then she faced the cameras.

"Hello, good people of Earth. Or somewhat good. Some of you may have noticed your Ood acting strangely for a few moments. That's because they are no longer your Ood. If any Ood are watching this, please come to the large media tower as quickly as possible. Humans, do not try and interfere. Thank you."

"Too diplomatic," the Assassin grumbled. "You could at least promise to kill anyone who interferes."

"I believe you did that for me," the Editor sniffed.

"Hunh. Guess I did." The Assassin replaced his helmet, handing the rest of the candy to Korrie. The Koralwai, plucked out of Hawaii in 1893, had probably had little contact with such food. Sure enough, she held it up suspiciously before taking a tiny bite of the brightly colored candy. She quickly spat it back out into her hand.

The Editor took her eyes off of the native girl, looking back into the camera.

"I would prefer this be peaceful, but unfortunately, I don't control my friend here. So please, be compliant and allow the Ood to return peacefully to their home. Thank you." The Editor held up her Sonic umbrella and pointed it straight at the camera, turning it off.

Then she turned to the Assassin. "Now we wait."

"...wait," repeated the Assassin. "Well that sounds _boring_."

Korrie put a hand on his arm, looking up into his masked face. With an overly dramatic sigh, the Assassin faced the Editor again.

"Fiiiine."

"Brilliant."

So the Timelord, Timelady, and Hawaiian girl sat outside the Media building. Several Ood took no time at all to show up. They stood calmly beside the little group. When the Ood from the immediate area grew too large to fit on the sidewalks without causing trouble, the Editor directed them into her TARDIS, where they joined Delta 21. On one such trip, Delta 21 stopped her.

"I believe I have found a suitable name. It is not unlike a word sung in the Song of My Birth." He held up her book, pointing to the word Cathect.

"I think that will be very suitable," said the Editor with a nod.

It was hard to tell with an Ood, but Cathect seemed rather pleased. He even offered to join the Editor in waiting with the Assassin and Korrie.

They continued to wait and collect Ood until the Editor was certain that they had all had the proper amount of time to travel to this particular point on earth.

The Assassin huffed. "See? Boring. Not even a tussle."

"You may have spoken too soon," said Korrie in her very precise voice. A slender finger was pointing up the road at what appeared to be a convoy truck full of Ood.

"What in Gallifrey's name," the Editor murmured.

"YES. Government people! They're the most fun to kill."

"Hush," she commanded the Assassin. He, of course, continued to ignore her. "I'm going to try and solve this diplomatically first." The Editor walked towards the truck, heels clicking on the asphalt.

The man driving the truck pulled over as the strange looking woman approached.

"You're the lady from the news," he growled.

"You can call me the Editor. Where are you taking these Ood?" she demanded.

"We were ordered to bring them to a compound," said the man.

"Well that's not what I ordered. And to be perfectly honest, I'm currently the authority on Ood matters. Are there other shipments?" The Editor looked at the man rather like a grammar teacher would glare at a poor student, steely-eyed and armed with articulate words and all the authority of adults behind her.

The man felt like a poor student. Helplessly caught under that harsh gaze. "We're the only one, ma'am," he mumbled.

"Good. Release them." The Editor rapped her umbrella on the side of the truck for emphasis.

"I- I can't just do that."

"Normally I would be perfectly happy to comply with making meetings and filling out forms. But you see, I have several other planets to check for Ood, and I simply haven't the time to stay here and play by the rules." The blasphemous words spilled out before she could react.

 _Dammit, Doctor,_ she thought. _You couldn't clean up after yourself on even one of these planets, could you?_

"I- I don't think that we can j- just... I mean..." the man faltered.

There was a very distinct "flump".

The driver twisted in his seat, and the Editor turned on her heel.

Lying on the ground was a uniformed man, eyes still open.

And out the back of the truck was an Ood translator, still crackling with electricity.

"Oh dear," the Editor mumbled, eyes wide.

"DEATH," came a cry from across the street.

There was instant panic. Humans screaming, soldiers shooting. Somehow, the Assassin had gotten a hold of one of the soldier's guns, sending bullets flying into the caravan.

"No no NO that's NOT how this is supposed to happen," the Editor yelled. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. There was rarely glory in war, but this didn't even have that. It was genocide.

In a sudden fury, the Editor stamped over to the Assassin, ripping the gun out of his hand.

"You coward," she seethed.

The Assassin tilted his head, like "So? What's new?"

The Editor hurled the gun into the street, where it skidded till it clattered to a stop against the curb. Nearly as suddenly as the panic had ensued, the panic died down.

Blood was everywhere.

Madness. Absolute madness. What were people capable of when compelled by fear? It seemed too much.

Korrie put a hand on the Assassin's arm. She looked up at him with large, dark eyes. He turned to look down into her face. Then he simply slumped against the wall.

"Go," came his muffled voice. "Get the Ood out of here."

The Editor looked between them with pursed lips. Korrie began to gently lead the Assassin towards their own TARDIS.

Cathect was very, very still.

"It was supposed to be over," the Editor snapped. "The killing part. The part with chaos. That's the Doctor's job, not mine. Mine is to clean up after."

"Killing parts are never over," said Cathect. "There is no war to end all wars, there is no everlasting peace. There will always be chaos, so long as there is life. It is not a human aspect. It is an aspect of living."

The Editor looked into his slanted eyes, manner still so serene in spite of seeing his own brethren murdered in front of him. In spite of seeing his own brethren murder. Was it just because of the voice coming out of his translation sphere? Or were Ood naturally so collected? Did they simply expect the worst, after years of enslavement to that awful, awful race of humans?

"Let us go," said the Editor. "We need to make sure this doesn't happen again."

* * *

A cup of tea and inter-planetary trip later, the Editor was a little less furious.

Now she was just sad.

"I'm so sorry, Cathect," she murmured over the lip of her tea-cup. "I shouldn't have allowed him to stay."

"He was not yours to control," said Cathect. It appeared that Ood could cry; there were streaks running down the wrinkled sides of his face.

The Editor was standing at the top of the staircase, the lid of the steamer trunk open so that she could see the stars and planets drifting past as the TARDIS slowly rotated in space.

"I love doing this," she whispered. "Everything so orderly. Everything follows the rules of physics, biology, chemistry. Humans are so good at making up rules to fit the world into. I used to think that's why the Doctor loved them so. But now I think it's because they break their own rules. Constantly. He loves the excitement, the chaos. The fact that they can fool even themselves. Because the Doctor wants to fool himself."

"Perhaps everyone wants to fool themselves," said Cathect. "We all wish to run from who we are."

"Even the Ood?" asked the Editor, turning away from the vast universe before her to look at Cathect.

"Even the Ood. But we cannot run forever. We may be able to fool ourselves, but we cannot fool those we are connected with." He was silent for a moment, his translation sphere dim. It flickered back to life. "I am the last Ood with a secret."

He was the only Ood that could run.

"Which way do you like better, Cathect?" The Editor asked. "Being connected, or being alone?"

"I wish to be reconnected with the Circle of Song," he replied formally.

"Then that's just what I'll help you do," the Editor promised.

"First, we must find the other Ood," Cathect said. "We do not want more bloodshed on the other planets. Then we can return them all to the Ood Sphere."

The Editor closed the lid and walked back down the stairs. The Ood were all in one of the Go-Betweens of the TARDIS; massive rooms filled with machinery and catwalks that were mostly there to lead to other rooms.

"Off we go then," said the Editor, methodically running her hands over the TARDIS controls, flicking the switches and pressing buttons. "Everyone hold on!" she said into a speakerphone, sending her voice ringing all over the TARDIS.

The TARDIS' engines started up as it took off

As it disappeared from it's spot in space, the Editor looked into Cathect's inversely-tilted eyes.

"You'll be reconnected to the circle of song," she mouthed over the sounds of the engine. Cathect's sphere lit up, although the Editor couldn't hear what he was saying.

Not one more Ood would be kept from where they belonged.

* * *

 _cathect (kuh-thekt)_

 _verb._

 _[1] To invest emotion or feeling in a particular idea, object, or person._


	5. Chapter 5

The Editor was standing beside the stairs as the Ood filed out of the TARDIS and back onto their home planet. They all held translation spheres, yet they all seemed connected to the Circle of Song.

So why wasn't Cathect?

"What's it like?" she asked him once the others were safely in their barren world. "The Circle of Song?"

"It is harmony," said Cathect. "Each person has a place, or makes their own. It comes from their subconscious; what they do, and why they do it. Who they are. But it is all in unison."

"What is the Circle's purpose?" the Editor asked. She sat down in one of the many arm-chairs in the console room.

"It reminds us who we are," replied Cathect in the overly-polite voice. "Both as individuals, and as a whole. It allows us to function as one, with us singing to what you call the 'hive mind' and it keeping us one."

"Is it difficult not being a part of it?"

"We do not know who we are." Although the translation sphere had only one voice setting, the Editor still thought, just for a moment, that she heard a tinge of sadness in the voice. "We are alone."

Alone. The Editor knew what it was like to be alone. Once again, her heart twisted in pity for the broken creature in front of her.

She put a gloved hand on top of his, just brushing the translation sphere. Cathect blinked, as though in surprise at the movement.

"I- I'm not sure if you know what I meant by that," the Editor said suddenly. "It's my way, my people's way, of showing that you're not alone. That I'll be with you until I can reconnect you to the Circle."

"Thank you, Editor-Friend," Cathect said.

"But," said the Editor promptly. "We need to look after the rest of your people first. There's two more planets, ten space ships, and thirteen space stations left to go." She stood and returned to the control panel, hands flying over the controls in a precise, practiced way. "I'm sure that if certain colleagues of mine were here, they'd comment on the number thirteen being unlucky. But I can assure you that such a notion is nonsensical, and this will be a doddle." The Editor flicked the final switch and turned, beaming, to look at Cathect.

And an irrational sliver of the Editor's brain seemed to think he was smiling back.

Cathect stepped out of the TARDIS onto the space station. The Editor could see why the Doctor loved bringing companions with him. There was something about the tentative sens of wonder that accentuated their every move. Something that made the Editor feel a little less... old.

She followed him with a smug sort of grin, watching the Oood look around at the facility that was, for this era, state of the art. Cathect had likely never seen anything but the Ood Sphere before. "What do you think?" She whispered to him.

"I think that it is most impressive. I am proud that my people built such a thing. But I am sad that they will never be credited for it."

The Editor winced, then pulled out her Sonic umbrella. She pointed it at the translation sphere, adjusting the volume.

"The legacy of the enslaved," she whispered back. "The forgotten builders of all humans take pride in. But not anymore. Not with your people, at least."

She crept through the metal hallways, the shadows cast by her and Cathect flickering in the dim lights. There were signs of a recent panic. Scratches were gauged in the sheets of metal lining the hall, and further ahead an amergy lever had been pulled. There wasn't any blood that the Editor could see which relived her greatly.

"Since we're here to rescue your people, how would you prefer this be done?" the Editor asked. "The proper by-the-rules way or under the assumption that they'll react the same as on earth?"

Cathect seemed to study her for a moment. "You prefer to work with the rules," said the voice in a far quieter tone.

"Yes," she admitted.

"I should think that humans wouldn't want want uncooperative Ood on such a fantastic piece of machinery as this station," said Cathect. "The proper way."

"Oh, I like you," said the Editor with a grin. She walked down the hall with a bit more authority, and less like she was sneaking.

They walked down several corridors before finding anyone that was alive.

"Who's there?" called a timid voice from inside a dark room. "I can hear your footsteps."

"Hello! That would be me and Cathect. I'm the Editor, pleasure to meet you." The Editor held up both of her hands, one still holding the umbrella, as she stepped into the room.

A woman holding a gun came into the light. "Who're you? Why've you got one of 'em?" she demanded.

"Your hands are shaking!" the Editor cried. "Oh, no need to have a panic attack, dear. The Ood aren't going to be a problem anymore. Cathect and I are going to take them home. They're not slaves, you see."

"We do not mean you any harm," Cathect added.

"Ood?" the girl whispered. "What about the Ood?"

"The Ood... red eyes? Killing people with their translation spheres? Rebelling for freedom?" the Editor asked. "Isn't that what happened out there?"

The girl shook her head. "Donae ken about any rebellious Ood."

"Then why in the world are you armed? And why was the emergency lever pulled?" the Editor asked.

"The droids!" the girl said. "The droids have gone mad! They killed Tryn. And now they're gonna kill us too."

"Oh dear," said Cathect. "That's not quite the adventure we were planning on."


	6. Chapter 6

"Tryn was goin' to analysis room to look up how to get a droid to work again, but he didnae come back," said Amara. "So I went to go lookin' for him, and there he was on the floor, bleedin' his guts out."

"What exactly did the droids do that made you think they were no longer operating correctly?" asked the Editor.

"Wouldnae do what I said," whimpered the girl. "We turned 'em off an' turned 'em on an' they they just stood there recalibratin'."

"Did you actually see them kill Tryn?" the Editor pressed.

Amara shook her head. "But it doesnae take a genius to work it out, ma'am."

The Editor frowned. "And you're certain you have no Ood on board?"

"Of course we have Ood," Amara said. "But they aren't the rebellious sort. Ye ken what I mean?"

"But they have _rebelled_ ," insisted the Timelady. "The Ood are quite free now, although I've yet to hear of one killing so violently."

"Ood arenae killers."

The Editor huffed. "If you humans would stop telling me what's impossible, you might be able to accomplish something!" She stood up, brushing off her skirt. "I'm sorry about Tryn, Amara, and I hope that you don't have too much trouble getting the station back in order and fixing the droids. But I must retrieve the Ood and leave."

"Ye cannae leave me here!" Amara cried. "Those droids are killers, they are! They'll kill me dead like Tryn!"

The Editor gave a sigh. "I'll take a look at these killer droids of yours, then."

"Thank ye," said Amara, letting go of her death grip on the rifle long enough to grasp the Editor's hand gratefully.

"Cathect, will you look for the Ood?" she asked.

"Where should I go if I cannot find them?" he asked, translation sphere glowing in the dark room.

"Meet me by the TARDIS in fifteen minutes. Amara, dear, please take me to the Analysis Center."

Amara stood and walked stiffly out the door. "I donnae want to look at him."

Cathect went down the opposite direction of the hallway. The Editor silently wished him luck, then followed Amara.

"You won't have to, dear. I'll take care of everything. Just point me to the door."

"I cannae look at him," Amara continued. "It's awful, what they done to him. I cannae bear it. He was my friend."

The Editor realized there was little point in attempting to soothe the girl, and simply let her prattle.

"An' here it is, ma'am. But please, donnae make me go in." Amara propped herself up against the wall, her whole body shaking. The Editor merely put a hand on her arm and nodded before going into the room.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "No, he wasn't killed by an Ood."

Tryn was on the floor, eyes wide but unseeing. His hand was on his stomach, but it did little to hide the fact that his organs were simply no longer inside it. They spilled out around him, resting in a pool of the poor boy's blood.

"You poor, poor thing." The Editor stepped over the mess and bent over the close his eyelids. Then, mouth set in a straight line, she looked at the computers lining the walls of the rooms.

She scanned the screens. The Droids were all off-line; she assumed Amara had effectively disabled the mechanics. There were no signs of a malfunction in programming, unless the Droid Programming Information Feeds had been frozen. The Editor then took a closer look at the settings.

No, there was nothing wrong with the Droids themselves. But they had been set to a program that, in the Editor's opinion, should never have been put in place.

"Amara?" The Editor walked out of the room and looked at the girl. "Why did Tryn set the Droids to Apocalypse?"

"Apocalypse? I donnae know much about the Droid settings, ma'am."

"Apocalypse is only to be used in the case of certain virus strains or some similar predicament. It causes the Droids to kill anything living on the ship."

"Tryn wouldnae do that!" Amara protested.

"Someone did," said the Editor.

"Ma'am?" asked Amara meekly.

"Yes?"

"Did... didnae you say somethin' about the Ood bein' rebellious?"

The Editor was shocked. "You don't think the Ood changed the Droid settings."

"You thought they mighta caused all the ruckus here. Whynae use the Droids?"

The Editor started to argue, but then she remembered that she had made the mistake of thinking of the Ood as little more than animals once. Who's to say the Hive Brain couldn't have resulted in their using a smarter method of rebellion?

With a sigh, she realized that the Ood wouldn't yet know that they were freed. Amara and the Editor would be a threat, unless Cathect could convince them otherwise.

"I don't suppose you have a station-wide announcement system?" asked the Editor. Amara shook her head.

"Went out with the lights an' the Droids when I blew one of the s... systems..."

"Amara?" The Editor peered at her face. The girl had gone rather pale. "Amara, do you need to get away from the room?"

"The Circle has been broken and reforged," said an overly-polite voice from behind the Editor. "You cannot keep us from returning home."

She turned slowly to find an Ood standing right behind her, and several behind him. Desperately, she looked among them for Cathect, but realized she wouldn't be able to tell him apart even if she could.

"Cathect? Did he find you?" she asked meekly. "We're friends of the Ood."

One Ood pointed at Amara with a free hand. "She is armed. She must remove her arms or be eliminated."

"Amara, dear, please remove your gun," the Editor said politely.

Amara shook her head wildly. "They killed Tryn! They changed the droid settings!"

The Editor blinked. Amara had figured it out before she had; that was a first for the Timelady. She had made the mistake of thinking the Ood to be little more than animals twice now. She wouldn't do it again.

"Ood," said the Editor. "I have a spaceship to take you back home if you'll come with me."

"We do not take orders from humans any longer," said the Ood in his too-polite voice.

"But I'm not human!" the Editor protested, before she realized it was the wrong argument. "I mean, I'm not attempting to order you abo-"

The Ood raised a crackling translation sphere.

Both women fell quiet.

"We wish to return home," said the Ood. But this time, they all spoke as one, sending a flickering wave of dim light through the hallway.

"I can take you home," said the Editor desperately.

"Remove your arms."

"No!"

"Or else you will be eliminated."

"Amara, do as they say!"

"No!"

"We wish to return home."

" _No!_ "

Oh, this is breaking so many of my rules, thought the Editor ruefully. With a sigh, she whirled around, momentum sending her umbrella swinging into a very specific spot on Amara's skull.

The gun slipped out of her hands and clattered to the floor. The Editor reached out and grabbed the girl before she followed after.

The Ood tilted his head. "You hit the human."

"She was about to make a very bad decision," said the Editor. "Which might result in hindering your return home."

The Ood looked up, past the Editor.

"You broke the rules for my people," said a voice ahead of her. A voice that was slightly too quiet in comparison to the other Ood.

"Cathect?" she asked, looking up. There stood another Ood, looking down at the Editor. Their faces didn't have expression, and their translation sphere's lacked any emotional tones. But she could almost _feel_ something coming from him. She had never been as good at telepathy as the Doctor, but even she could make this out.

Forgiveness.

A small part of Cathect had still blamed the Editor for what had happened. She was like the other humans, ordering Ood about and unable to truly help. But here she had broken her own rules for them.

Redemption. Just a sliver. But just enough.

 **Hello, everyone! Sorry for the delayed update; this chapter just wouldn't come out right! I hope that you enjoyed the final result, however. Please review with your opinions, where you hope things go, or rants!**

 **-J.A.**


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